


Driftwood

by quodpersortem



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-31
Updated: 2011-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-22 01:03:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quodpersortem/pseuds/quodpersortem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hank crushes on Alex. Alex is popular and likes girls. That is all there is to it, really. (Except then Alex manages to surprise Hank, as always without fail). Something to do with glasses and sweaters. There is also some alcohol and pot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Driftwood

Alex must know he is popular, with all the girls in their cheerleader uniforms gathering around him. You know he is, staring at him slyly as possible, and hopefully without anyone noticing. Once you catch his eyes you look away, your face turning hot when he smiles, because you are sure it—he can’t be smiling at you. He only smiles at the girls he wants.

You turn around, check if there is a pretty blonde or brunette sitting behind you, but instead it is a group of jocks, not paying attention to the cheerleaders at all. Instead they seem to be talking about who _banged_ who. They are all friends of Alex, of course, because everyone at this school who is popular is considered one of Alex’ friends.

You decide your school books are more interesting, even though you can recite the formulas you had to learn without any trouble—even though you voluntarily take the kind of advanced chemistry that makes people say you are either out of your mind, or a genius. You don’t look up at the shove of chairs on linoleum, or the giggling of cheerleaders brushing past you. The oppressive-sweet smell of too much perfume makes you hold your breath involuntarily. When they have passed, and Alex stands still next to you, you ignore him.

He grabs your shoulder and says, ‘Hey bozo, studying again?’ You shrug; count the prime numbers in an attempt to calm down. Two. Three. Five. His hand is still squeezing your shoulder and his breath is warm in your face; it smells of peanut butter, and maybe chocolate too. ‘You’ll ace it, don’t worry.’ You realize he must think your flushed state comes from worrying about the test. He doesn’t leave until you nod tentatively.

With five minutes to go before class, you do something you’ve never done before. You walk to the most secluded bathroom the school has, lock yourself in, and bite your hand in the hope nobody will hear you moan.

-

 

After the chemistry exam you have another two hours before the day ends. During biology you feel comfortable enough—you’re in your element, peering at cells under a microscope—but English literature is a different thing.

You enter the room late, rushing to your table. It is next to the aisle the farthest from the room, and you look at the dark-red carpet, stained with undeterminable substances. Once you are sitting, you briefly look out of the window—the grounds where the sports team practices during summer are empty; the rain is pouring down onto the fallen leaves. Then you focus on the teacher, who is about to start class. You can hear tumultuous laughter behind you, people shifting in their seats. Alex’ voice towers above everyone else’s, shouting he is throwing a party next weekend.

Miss Evans is wearing grey clothes, as always. She wears her glasses at the tip of her nose so you assume she is hyperopic; not myopic like yourself. The book in her hands is as colorless as she is.

Someone—Alex—keeps kicking against your chair the first fifteen minutes. You try to ignore it, but the thump against the stool shakes you from your concentration each time. Especially because it is out of rhythm (and especially because it is Alex).

Seven, eleven, thirteen. Keep yourself focused. You are reading a Shakespearean sonnet that’s got nothing to do with anything in your life, or at least so you pretend. _Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day_. Seventeen. Nineteen. The sound of laughter erupts behind you and this time you turn to look. Alex is staring right back, but only for a brief moment. Then one of the people with him hollers, “Oh look, the genius wants to join in on the fun” and you are getting ignored again.

You pretend you don’t hear the sound of cigarettes being rolled. Instead you think of your cultures growing in the chemistry lab. Of the bookshelves at home, with all the information you haven’t absorbed yet; tomorrow’s biology exam you are going to have no problems with because it is on genetics.

A minute before the bell rings, a ball of paper lands on your desk. You don’t wonder for who else it might be meant, because nobody is sitting in front of you. It is just two rows of empty tables, reserved for the students that wreak havoc. Then you slip the note into your backpack.

When you look up again, the class is empty and Miss Evans is looking at you, her eyebrow raised. She is obviously impatiently waiting for you to get out of the room.

You turn your eyes back to the floor, and shuffle out of the room. Then you walk home fast as possible.

-

_Meet me at 9.15pm tonight. I’ll be waiting in front of the old mill._

You are sitting on your bed, the paper clenched in your hand. The handwriting doesn’t belong to a girl; it looks too messy, too hasty. There is no reason why Alex would send you this though, so you think it is probably a prank. The popular kids will be standing in front of the mill instead, waiting for you to come trailing after Alex like some lovesick puppy, mobile phones ready to make pictures of your disappointed face.

At 8 o’clock you decide you definitely aren’t going.

At 8.30 your parents ask you why you are so fidgety and you shrug, and then hurry back up into your room. You read the summary you wrote for biology yesterday. It is of the text you need to know; except it all makes such sense you doubt this is going to help you score higher. The grading system doesn’t go beyond A+ anyway, and you feel uncomfortable each time a teacher congratulates you with a perfect score.

Right before nine you pull on your navy blue sweater, soft after it’s been washed at least a hundred times. The sleeves are a little too short so they show your wrists, and most of your forearms when you stretch them in front of you. You tell your parents you are going to study with Sean over at his place and mumble something about him not understanding something. It isn’t raining anymore when you get your mountain bike out of the rackety shed next to the house.

The old mill stands at the edge of a forest that goes on until the nearest large city. You aren’t exactly sure when it was built, but it hasn’t been kept well and it fits in with the landscape in such a way that it looks ancient, like it belongs there.

Even from a distance, and even though your vision is a little blurry because of the raindrops on your glasses, you see someone stand in front of the mill.

Closer by, you see that yes, it is Alex.

When you stop in front of him, he is laughing and pats your back. You smile awkwardly. “I didn’t think you’d come!” he tells you.

You lick your lips and he is leaning in. You can feel a flutter in your stomach—not exactly comfortable but certainly not unpleasant either. Then laughter sounds from inside the old building and you raise your eyebrows.

Alex laughs again and says, “We’re throwing a party, and we weren’t sure if you’d ever been to one, because you’re such a bozo.” For a moment you wonder if you should turn right back and go home. Alex is still looking at you, and though you’ve been called a lot of names, ‘bozo’ stopped being an insult sometime last year.

“Alright,” you say then. “I’ll see what it’s like.” Then you throw your bike against the wall of the mill and lock it. You put the keys in your pocket.

The moment you walk in, Alex trailing behind you, you get a bottle of beer pushed in your hand. You’ve never had beer before and you cringe at the bitterness of the first sip. But the other boys are looking, and the girls, their faces already turning rosy, are taking swigs from bottles of white and rosé wine.

It makes you feel uncomfortable, sitting squashed between people you’ve never talked to before—while Alex sits on the other side of the cramped space. There are maybe ten, fifteen people, and the few windows that are still lodged in the window frames have a thick layer of condense on them. You aren’t sure if it’s because of the many people, or simply because it’s cold and damp outside and quickly getting dark. Even after only half a bottle your head feels lighter, and to think is to swim through maple syrup.

After a full bottle, the discomfort isn’t as obvious anymore, and people don’t seem to mind you’re normally outcast. They ask you about how it is possible you’re so good at school. You tell them, “I study a lot.” “I read.” “I hardly ever forget what I read because I think it is interesting.” You tell them things you think they’ll find interesting—that semen works like an anti-depressant, and then you blush because normally you would never have said that.

“Now for the good stuff!” You hear someone say. The girl next to you seems interested in you—her hand is on your leg but you want to push it off. You wonder if she has noticed you keep looking away from her; at the floor, and at Alex. They are passing a cigarette around, but you don’t see what kind it is until it’s pressed into your hand.

“Don’t be afraid,” Alex grins at you, and you figure, _what the hell._ Your hand shakes when you put the joint to your lips and take a light drag. Immediately the smoke starts stinging in the back of your throat and you cough. There is a hand on your shoulder and someone hands you another bottle of beer. You gratefully accept it, taking a large swig.

“Not bad for a first time,” Alex tells you.

You look up, say, “You still think I’m a bozo now?” Alex nods, shrugs and then laughs again.

You wait for the joint to pass around, and this time you take a drag while looking straight at Alex. He raises his eyebrows a little, grins—but that might also be the girl’s hand that’s slipping into your lap. It makes you gasp—your body reacts to it. The weed makes you want to huddle closer, to touch her, but you don’t. Touching isn’t something you normally do and the girl next to you is too soft, with blonde hairs and blue eyes and a gentle smile. You think her name is Raven and that it doesn’t suit her at all—Raven makes you think dark hair and venomous words. She is kind, tipsy, and keeps laughing, leaning against you so you feel her breasts press against your upper arm.

You inhale a little too enthusiastically the third drag. The joint has burnt down so far the cigarette paper is nearly touching the hard-paper tip, and maybe there is too much weed mixed in with the tobacco it when you inhale again—but in any case, the moment the smoke hits your lungs you can feel this is wrong. Your heart starts beating faster immediately, way too fast, and your throat closes up. You think you can’t breathe so you also can’t cough. Your stomach starts protesting against the burn in your chest and your eyes are watering—so you get up, stumbling out of the mill and into the fresh air because you think you will throw up.

Bent-over, that is how you stand, trying to breathe and to keep yourself from vomiting. Most people inside are laughing, and it sounds louder than before. You don’t pay any notice, though you vaguely realize it might be because of your reaction. Don’t think. Breathe in. Breathe out. Concentrate on how the cool air hits your lungs, opens them up, and slowly eases away the nausea.

You hear someone walk up to you—the sneakers give away it is Alex. “I’m sorry,” he says, the laughter still audible in his voice. “We probably should’ve warned you.” You shake your head; hold your hand up to keep him from stepping in any closer because you are still not sure if you feel well enough to get up. “Just keep breathing.”

“That’s good advice,” you choke out, “what do you think I’ve been doing since I got outside?” From the corner of your eye you see Alex shrug. He is wearing a leather jacket over a red sweater; his jeans are hanging so low you can see a slither of his underwear.

“Come on,” Alex says after a while, “There’s a bench around mill. You need to sit down for a while.” You feel weak on your legs and Alex must’ve noticed because he is steadying you, a hand on your elbow, while you walk around the building.

You take off your glasses the moment you’re sitting. They’ve fogged up, probably because you went from a warm place to a cold place, though it might as well be because you are still beading in sweat. Your sweater feels a little clammy but it gets your glasses cleared up. Alex sits down next to you; your legs are touching and you are counting again. Twenty-three. Twenty-nine and thirty-one. People are shouting inside, but the outside air covers it with a veil of silence. Alex is still looking at you.

“Are you feeling a little better?” He asks. There is no humor in his voice this time.

You tell him, “Yes, I am. I think it’s the outside air.” Alex nods.

“Most people don’t do very well, smoking spliff for the first time.” He sits silent for a while and you look at him, putting your glasses back on. Then Alex’ head lolls to your side, and he huffs out a laugh. “You should get contact lenses, you look better without glasses.”

You feel your face go red again and look to the other side, glad it’s dark outside now; that it’s cold. Then his hand is on your thigh and you don’t know what to do, so you say, “Maybe I will.”

Something is coiling in your stomach, tight and angry, exciting. A sudden wave of nervousness washes over you and you have to close your eyes, take a deep breath. Alex squeezes your leg.

“The others didn’t want me to invite you,” Alex whispers in your ear, his lips nearly brushing your skin. You are aware of how he is looking at you intently, waiting. Then he starts speaking again and you wonder if maybe he is nervous as well, if maybe his heart is beating as fast as yours. You remind yourself he is probably just taking the piss—“I’ve seen you look at me.”

“I’m sorry,” you say without thinking, because what else _could_ you say? Then he presses his body up against yours. You know what is coming, you can feel it, it’s an oppressive feeling even in the fresh air, but here is the thing: you can’t believe this. You’re a nerd—the outcast of any school—he calls you bozo, he is popular and _straight._

“I don’t _really_ mind,” Alex then tells you, his nose brushing your cheek. You shudder and he grins—you can see it in a blur. “You are a bit of a weirdo, of course, but—” and then he is leaning away and you are sure he is going to call everyone out, laugh at your flushed state, at how obviously aroused you are. Instead his hands are on your face, taking away your glasses again. “I meant that bit about the glasses, by the way,” he says, laying your glasses on the lid of the water reservoir next to the bench.

He kisses you before can close your eyes. His mouth is soft in a way you hadn’t expected, and his hands are resting in your neck, pulling you closer. You respond, opening your mouth, pressing your tongue against his. Alex makes a sound in the back of his throat, presses himself even closer, and only then you allow yourself to believe this can’t be a lie.

You have no idea how long you’re sitting out there, kissing Alex. At some point he crawls into your lap, and you can feel how he is aroused, like you. You have to lean back against the wall of the mill, cold against your back—though not as cold as your fingers get, resting lightly on the small of Alex’ back because you are afraid to go any further.

The moment someone starts calling for Alex, you can feel him tense up. “I have to go back,” he whispers, wiping his mouth clean of spit. “I’ll tell them you’ve been sick, that you’ve gone home, okay?” You nod, because what else can you do? Then, when he is about to get up, he presses another—a last—dry kiss to your lips. “I do like you,” he says, his voice a little shaky, “But they can’t know. Not now. Keep it quiet, okay?” Then he stalks off, looking back once when he is about to walk out of view.

You put your glasses back on, and adjust your pants to feel a little more comfortable. Then you dig up your bike’s keys from your pockets and cycle home.

Your parents are watching television when you get back, looking distinctly unworried even though you arrive an hour past the time you were due to be home. Maybe they’ve seen how your biology book is still opened on your bureau, but they don’t say. Maybe they hope you’ve been out to see a girl. They don’t even comment on the smell in your clothes, the sweeter-than-usual stench of tobacco and beer.

Back in your room, you undress and brush your teeth. Your glasses go onto the night stand and you quietly turn on the radio. Once you’re lying in bed you remember his mouth, his hands on your face and your neck, and you slip a hand in your underwear trying to think of only that.

-

When you arrive at school the next day, people are looking at you. You are sure it is not simply paranoia—normally they would have ignored you. Now they stop and stare, and you can hear them whisper. They don’t even bother keeping it so quiet you can’t hear it—so you hear the name “ _Alex_ ” a couple of times, “ _kissed him_ ” and “ _gay_ ”. You don’t feel particularly afraid—you’ll graduate in a few months, and you already have survived years of bullying.

A few more shoves in the corridors won’t matter, right? In first instance, you assume Alex has told everyone you tried to come on to them so you don’t even bother turning around, figuring out what exactly they’re talking about, not to mention putting it right.

But when you’re in class, English first this morning, Alex isn’t there yet and one of the girls who were at the party too last night taps at your shoulder. “Is it true?” she whispers. You raise your eyebrows, questioning. She looks around and then says, “Is Alex really gay?”

“I don’t know if he is-“ you start saying, wondering if you really should be covering for him. He’s the one who kissed you; not the other way around. She cuts you off.

“Last night, after you were away, we had some stronger drinks.” She looks a little out of it, as if she can’t quite believe what is going on, and you can feel how your face is heating up again already. “Someone asked why you invited him.”

“And?” You inquire, and she lets out a nervous laugh. Then she looks at the door and her eyes widen. Alex is standing in the doorway, a sheepish smile on his face. There is no doubt—he’s heard the talk. Miss Evans was about to start the class already—she always starts at eight thirty precise and that is about half a minute from now—but today she doesn’t even try to keep the class quiet.

Alex steps into the class and takes place in front of the whiteboard. He clears his throat and you can barely hear him when he starts talking, your heartbeat too loud in your ears, your entire body tense with anxiety.

“Hey,” he says, looking brightly at the people sitting at the tables; even sparing a look for Miss Evans. “This is to clear up the rumors that have been going around school. I’d like to say that yes, I am bisexual, and my actual friends group has known for a while.” Then he grins. “And I seduced Hank. Last night he succumbed, and I’m sorry that everyone now knows he likes me, but I was drunk and I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.”

You look down when he walks by your table, feeling the eyes of every single person in the classroom on you. You wish you could disappear into thin air, or at least that you would stop blushing, but it’s wishful thinking because you know everyone is thinking about you and Alex now. Miss Evans doesn’t have to ask for quiet once after the initial cheering and booing—both at once—as the entire class seems a little overwhelmed by Alex’ confession.

-

After class, you wait for Alex in the corridor. You’re fidgeting with a loose thread in your jacket’s pocket. Your throat is dry, your heart is pounding, and you wonder if he is your boyfriend now. You let the world roll on your tongue, _boyfriend._ You’ve known you were gay for some time—you can’t remember the last time you thought you might be straight. You’ve never bothered hiding—but you don’t advertise it either. If someone at school were to ask you, you would probably have said you’re straight.

You don’t even know why in particular you fell for Alex. He is good-looking, sure, and the wrong type of boy all girls seem to fall for. All girls, and you. Now you wonder if maybe it was a mutual feeling of being different. If there was something in his behavior that was a little off, a little queer. Maybe his pheromones, you think.

Then he exits the class, as last. You’ve got chemistry the coming hour but you don’t think you’ll be missing much. The teacher will have to understand—you’ve never missed a class before.

Alex grins at you, still looking a little insecure. “How are you?” he asks you, and you smile.

“I’m fine,” you tell him. “Besides, I think most people already suspected I am gay.” That is maybe not entirely true, but you know there were rumors going on about you. You’ve never had a girlfriend after all.

“So,” Alex says. “What are we going to do now?” He knows what you’ll be doing, because he slips his fingers around your wrist and you don’t withdraw. Then he drags you around the corner, out of sight of anybody.

“I really like you too,” you tell him, and he nods smugly. Then you press him up against the wall, using your weight and height as leverage, and kiss him until your glasses shove out of place, and you have to withdraw because they are about to fall off.

“I told you to get contacts,” Alex grins at you. “You’re such a bozo.”

Instead of hitting him, like you’ve wanted to do so often in the past, or walking away, like you _have_ done so often in the past, you just kiss him again.

~


End file.
